


Crisis Equals Rooftops

by zfic



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spideypool - Freeform, i mean what the hell is new, spidey angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 13:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14136753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zfic/pseuds/zfic
Summary: Wade said to order pizza.





	Crisis Equals Rooftops

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this fic is on my tumblr, too, same username and everything if you want to check it out. nothing really original with this fic, but i wanted to try my hand at spideypool and see how it goes. i'm thinking of continuing with this piece, but im not so sure yet. thank you so much for reading! <3

The dial tone drones on in Peter’s ear for far too long.

<>Where are you?<>

Peter knows it’s a stupid question. He could quite easily be anywhere in the world at this point. Off-world, maybe.

He panics when the phone cuts off and he quickly redials, his hands shaking.

<>Pick up, pick up, jeez, please.<>

“Wade?” His voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to him. Broken and desperate and in need of someone.

“Baby boy.” Came his reply, crackling over the bad line.

Peter covers his face with a hand, relief and shame rushing over him. He takes a shaky breath in but can’t quite get himself to say anything else.

On the other end of the line he hears distant yelling, then, “SHUT THE HELL UP, IM TALKIN’ ‘ERE!” Two gunshots, silence.

“Something happened.” Peter manages.

A pause, “Gimme an hour. Get home, yeah? You don’t sound like you should be sittin’ anywhere near a ledge three hundred feet up.”

He doesn’t question how he knows Peter’s anywhere near a rooftop. Maybe he was just that predictable. Crisis equals rooftops because rooftops equals solitude and solitude equals no chance of fucking up.

Peter nods, forgetting that Wade can’t actually see him, and gets to his feet, “I’m-”

“Don’t sweat it, Spidey,” he says, “Order a pizza and we’ll call it quits.”

“I’ll get two.”

“Atta boy.” More shouting in the distance, “Oop, gotta banana split, see ya soon.”

“Soon.” He replies, but the line is already dead.

Peter pockets his phone and puts the mask back on. He doesn’t want to, it’s suffocating him tonight, but he does anyway. He understands that he has to. He holds his hand out to the building in front of him, shoots a web and jumps, snapping into autopilot as he swings through the city.

To simultaneously distract himself from what happened tonight and focus on not ending up flattened to a wall, he makes up a formula in his head.

C (Crisis) + R (Rooftops) = C+R

C + R = S (Solitude)

S = 0FU (Zero Fucking Up)

He knows it’s not quite right, there aren’t any assigned numbers to the values so there’s no reason why an addition of C and R would equate to nought. But in his head it makes sense, and for now that’s good enough for him.

The first thing he does when he gets back to his apartment is rip off his mask and toss it across the living room. Remaining stationary by the open window he just came through, he watches it hit the bookshelf and slide to the floor. 

Wade said to order pizza.

<>You hurt them.<>

Wade said to order pizza.

So, he does. Mechanically, as if he were reciting the composition of the human body he worked so hard to memorise back in high school.

(Calcium, oxygen, potassium, hydrogen…)

<>Extra cheese, thick crust, jalapenos, side of garlic bread.<>

(Flourine is toxic in large quantities…)

<>Don’t forget the chive dip.<>

Peter puts the phone down and strips out of his suit on the way to his bedroom. He throws on week-old tracks and crumpled white t-shirt before he curls into a ball on his bed.

<>You shouldn’t have called him.<>

He buries his head under his pillow.

<>It’s not his problem.<>

<>Bear the consequences.<>

Peter must have fallen asleep because he opens his eyes to a headache and someone buzzing his apartment. He drags himself out of bed and lets the pizza guy up. He pays, tips, and puts the pizza in the oven to keep warm. Autopilot again.

When he returns to his room, he bundles himself up again, closing his eyes.

Though, this time he doesn’t sleep, instead choosing to count his breaths, then the ticking of the wall-clock, then the tap-tap-tap of something on glass.

A muffled voice follows it, “Petey? Couldja open up, it’s getting real cold, real quick out here.”

Peter’s eyes fly open and he rushes to the window, unlatching it and letting Deadpool swing inside, bringing the brisk air with him.

Wade dusts himself off, cracks out his back, and straightens, “Ask me how I got here so fast.”

Peter smiles at him, closing the window and perching on the side of the bed, “How did you get here so fast?”

“I took the subway!” He reaches into his pocket and throws his hand into the air, letting loose a bunch of confetti to fall over them. On closer inspection, the confetti consists of various ripped up ‘Welcome to NYC’ pamphlets and an advert selling a used trombone, “Ta-da! Are you proud of me?”

Peter rubs his eyes and nods, looking incredibly small, “I’m real proud of you, Wade.”

He watches Peter for a few moments before he kneels in front of him and tilts his head back with a gloved knuckle beneath his chin, “You look like you’ve been through the ringer, Petey.”

And Peter can only nod. Wade’s strange, gravelly voice is, has always been, a powerful comfort to him. But now it only reminds him of the guilt eating up his insides and why the guilt was there in the first place. Peter crumples and closes his fists, pressing them to either side of his head, “I did something wrong. So wrong.”

With one hand, Wade sifts his fingers through Peter’s soft brown hair, the other removing his mask, “Tell me.”

He looks up into his blue eyes and kind face before throwing himself at Wade, seeking out his lips. He wraps his legs round Wade’s waist pulling him close and sighing as strong arms wrap around him.

They weren’t together, exactly. Wade’s vigilante…lifestyle didn’t allow him much freedom with relationships, especially not ones permanent to NYC. Whenever Wade was in the city, however, they were inseparable. 

Still, that didn’t mean it was alright for Peter to summon Wade from whatever mission he was on because he was having a crisis of conscience. Or that he should expect Wade to know how to make it better. But now that he was here… shit, it felt so right.

“Peter.” Wade murmurs against his mouth, the rough, scarred skin of his chest perfect under Peter’s hand.

“Please, Wade.” Peter whispers, kissing him again.

“Baby boy, you think I don’t want to?” Wade laughs, moving back fractionally to look Peter in the eye, “But this is definitely not what you need right now.”

“How do you know?” He replies, pressing his forehead to his shoulder.

“Because, I can safely say for certain, and I can’t say that about a lotta things, like a lot. Especially, like, anything to do with housekeeping? What the fuck is a Roomba, anyway? I -” 

He cuts himself off when Peter gives him a look and Wade clears his throat, “Point is, I know you. You need a little closure, everybody does, right? I mean,” he leans forward and kisses the side of Peter’s neck, “We can always fuck after.”

Sighing, Peter puts his head in his hands, his voice coming out muffled, “I made a wrong call.”

“It happens.”

“But I hurt someone, Wade. They were completely innocent and I hurt them.” He rakes his hands through his hair, making it stand up on end, “What do I do?”

“Look, Petey,” he says, touching the tips of his fingers to his cheek, “I’m not an expert on these things. Far from it. Morals…eh, I’d rather not get into it. Bad monkey see other bad monkey, first monkey blows other bad monkey’s brains out.”

Peter snorts, fixing him with a chastising glare. Despite all he felt for Wade, all he felt with Wade, he couldn’t bring himself to make peace with the way Wade worked. Killing people was a deep, resounding No for Peter. To his credit, Wade didn’t talk much about how he conducted himself on missions. Whenever they worked together, Wade, Deadpool, limited himself for Peter. Bullets and blood and pain, sure, but not enough to kill. They avoided the subject as much as they possibly could, it was sure to descend into a terrible argument, they knew. 

Tonight was different, though. Tonight Wade was making a point, and Peter recognised as much.

Wade smile grows as Peter’s expression softens, the left side of his mouth pulling up more than the right, “Thing is, I choose to do that shit. There’s a reason there’s a ‘merc’ in ‘merc with a mouth’.” He cups Peter’s jaw, “But you, you choose not to do that. It was wrong call and that’s it.”

“I dunno, Wade…”

“You wanted to hurt the guy? Or gal? Or both? Or neither?”

“Guy, and no.” Peter murmured, watching the rise and fall of Wade’s bare chest.

“Well, there ya go. You’re… eh, mostly human, you’re kinda allowed to make mistakes.”

“Great power, great responsibility, remember?”

Wade dipped his head to look up into Peter’s, “And this time, your responsibility is to learn.” His face contorts for a second and he grows quiet. He rolls his eyes and grumbles something before shaking his head and pulling Peter close, “Just… just learn, okay, Petey?”

Peter nods and hugs him back, understanding. He presses his forehead against Wade’s and smiles, “You okay?”

“Me? I’m dandy.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.” He drawled.

“Want that pizza?”

“God, please.”

Crisis equals rooftops because rooftops equals solitude and solitude equals no chance of fucking up.

Crisis equals fucking up and fucking up must be learned from.

It must be learned from.


End file.
